


Angry

by HSR (helena_s_renn)



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Discussion of Abortion, M/M, Mentions of het
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-15
Updated: 2005-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23661226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helena_s_renn/pseuds/HSR
Summary: Viggo had never seen Sean so angry.
Relationships: Sean Bean/Viggo Mortensen
Kudos: 4





	Angry

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the REAL Viggo and Sean. I don’t know them. As characters, however, they need no explanation. As much as I admire him (or whatever) Sean is scary. And Viggo has issues. This bunny would not take no for an answer.  
> Cross-posting from my old LJ. Original publication date used.

Viggo had never seen Sean so angry.

It had been late on a Saturday afternoon when the British actor had stomped into Viggo’s house without knocking, barged right in like he owned the place, and slammed the door. His footsteps thudded back and forth across the living room, up and down the hall as he paced. “Hullo, the house… Anyone here?” he yelled. After a minute, something large and glass shattered against the wall. Viggo was pretty sure it was one of the plates he’d left to air dry on the dish rack.

‘Good thing I’m not sentimental,’ he thought. On the other hand, perfectly good dishes in shards and the possibility of stepping on one of them made him move. Normally if you let Sean alone for a few minutes, he’d be fine. As soon as he’d skin his knuckles or taste blood in his mouth or something tangible turned up torn or broken in his hands, he’d stop. There had never been a time that Sean hadn’t offered to fix or replace whatever his temper led him to destroy. There was always remorse in his voice, after. Not today.

As Viggo cleaned off his brushes with a piece of stained cloth, he counted eight more crashes. The blue streak emanating from Sean’s mouth grew steadily louder and more profane. “Viggo!” he bellowed finally, punctuated by the sound of least two barstools hitting the floor. “Get the hell down here NOW!”

“What the fuck?” Viggo wondered, jogging downstairs. Eventually Sean would come looking for him and he didn’t want his makeshift attic studio totaled. A smear of red-orange paint from his right hand trailed down the banister. He almost didn’t want to see this. Fear was not one of his normal reactions, but he didn’t particularly care for being attacked in any sense of the word for something he had nothing to do with. It hadn’t been his idea, none of it. Still, now he would have to be the voice of reason and calm, to take the brunt of this crazed beast Sean became when he was in pain. Viggo could see this had the makings of the worst incident yet.

“I’m assuming it didn’t go well.” A simple statement—no accusation, no ‘I told you so.’ Still, a coffee mug came flying at him.

“You’re fucking right it didn’t.” Sean’s face was red. He’d gotten his hair clipped very short a few days before and it took away any softness from his features. He wore an ugly scowl, eyes gone grey with rage, the look of a man capable of murder and damage.

“Well, she is married…”

“So what? What difference should that make?”

Hence, the reason Sean was not married at present. Viggo didn’t think the man would ever grasp that concept.

“She’s already made a nice mess for herself. With your help, of course. That would only have made it worse.”

“That!?” bellowed Sean, even louder. “That is mine, too! I have some rights here.”

“Rights? I don’t know what it’s like in Jolly Old England, what with the class system and all that,” temporized Viggo, his annoyance carefully controlled, “but in the States it’s the woman’s right. It’s her body and it’s her choice. And here I always thought we were the most conservative excuse for a free country there was. Am I wrong?”

“Don’t give me your socio-psychological bullshit. I don’t care. That’s my child in ‘her’ body.”

Viggo, who found this a painful subject for himself as well, felt his hackles begin to rise. He said, “You’re already paying child support to two different families. Did you want to add another one? Or maybe you were planning to marry her, too. Bigamy is illegal, you know.”

Totally flummoxed, Sean dropped his jaw.

“In fact,” Viggo continued, “if I was in her position, I’d be doing the same exact thing. She’s making the right choice. If you thought about it for five seconds instead of wallowing in some kind of testosterone-high, ‘I knocked her up’ thing, you’d agree. You know you’re not going to stay with her. Your kids don’t really need another sib with another mom.”

“You,” Sean coldly said, “are a fucking know-it-all son of a bitch.”

“Think what you want. Whatever. Just… been there, done that.”

“Well, I don’t bloody care!” Sean picked up another plate, the last in the rack, and cocked his arm back. Unmindful of the glass on the floor, Viggo moved in a flash to his side and grabbed his wrist.

“That’s enough already.”

“Don’t you ever speak about my family again.”

“Alright, Sean, sorry. Just put it down.”

Sean lowered his arm so Viggo lowered his guard. It proved to be a mistake. Looking anywhere but at him, and with exaggerated care, Sean set the dish he was holding in the sink. The same hand flew up and grabbed the artist by the scruff of the neck. Amazingly strong fingers found no good purchase and sank deeply into longish dark-dyed hair. Too surprised to move at first, Viggo offered no resistance. He felt himself being wrenched bodily around. Sean bent him violently over the nearest counter, putting pressure on the back of his neck to hold him down. The same fingers landed on Viggo’s waistband and tugged his loose sweats down. He wore nothing underneath.

A red light lit in Viggo’s brain. Now he started to struggle. Twisting like an angry cat, he got his hands under his chest and pushed up hard. For a second, he thought he’d gotten free, but Sean reacted too quickly and slammed him forward again. His ribs were going to be bruised. The blond man was pawing and slapping at Viggo’s bare ass and panting heavily.

“Don’t, man,” Viggo asked softly, to whatever vestige of the uncrazed Sean still lurked in there. “Not like this.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sean yelled. His free hand fumbled with his belt and zipper. He had leaned even more weight on Viggo, who was beginning to have difficulty breathing. In hopes of easing the pressure, Viggo turned his head to the side. He could see a blurred image out of the bottoms of his eyes and it was not pretty. In the state Sean was in, Viggo wouldn’t have felt safe around the Brit without a brick wall or bars between them. But there wasn’t, not even air. Once more Viggo wrenched upwards. Sean was possessed of the kind of adrenaline-enhanced strength that wouldn’t be subdued, the kind you hear about when they have to call six paramedics to take a guy down. He forced Viggo against the Formica with a grunt, and said in an ugly tone, “Stop that, you bitch. You’re going to take it and like it. Fucking cunt!”

Like he’d been slapped, Viggo realized Sean was not talking to him. Bad enough to be forced; worse that he was about to be used as an object to vent frustration on. It seemed certain now he was going to be fucked savagely with no condom and no lubrication. The man behind him had stripped off his sweat pants using some combination of hands and feet and now they lay crumpled across the room. A shoe jabbed between his ankles and kicked his feet wide apart.

“Please, use something…” Viggo’s plea was cut off by an open-handed smack to his mouth. His teeth cut into the soft tissue inside. Sean was hard as stone and pushing at his entrance. Already it burned. The restrained man’s hands scrabbled along the countertop for oil, butter, anything.

They’d always been friends. Hell, they’d even had sex a few times, so he thought he’d known what to expect. A show of force, but just that—a show. Viggo was hardly inexperienced. He could take it rough, if sufficiently prepared. There was none of that now. At last Viggo’s flailing right hand lit on a bottle of vegetable oil. In his haste, he lost the lid down the garbage disposal. Sean’s turgid member pressed forward, stretching him without mercy. It was no good.

“For god’s sake, let me…” Viggo gasped out. He managed to slop about a tablespoon of liquid into a small pool in the cup of his hand. This he brought quickly around the back of him, to where their bodies were joining together. With a twist of his wrist, most of the oil dripped onto his unready hole. The remainder coating his palm he tried to smear on Sean’s cock before his hand was batted away. Viggo prayed it’d be enough.

No. He was breached, and ripped, and it burned like fire. Sean was sliding in more than oil now. The hand on his neck fisted into his hair, effectively mashing his face harder than before against the counter. Sean curled his other hand around Viggo’s hip bone for leverage. The pads of his fingers dug into muscle and more tender connective tissue. He was going to have fingerprints, too. Like miniature flaming brands, Sean left a rain of bite marks on his back. Central to it all was the reaming he was taking from the bullish, enraged man, unable to breathe properly and prevented from defending himself. That thing, that painful fucking huge unrelenting thing inside him, it wouldn’t stop; it wouldn’t get out. With every forceful thrust, it conquered more and more of him. It was just Sean’s cock, nothing he hadn’t seen before; he knew this, but Sean was using it as a weapon, to purposely (out of his head or not) hurt and damage. He hated it. But he could do nothing except wait for it to be over.

In very little actual time, it was. Seemed like a year to Viggo. Heat and stickiness exploded inside him. Sean leaned in over him as his orgasm faded. The closeness made Viggo’s skin crawl. He was glad when the other backed away. A backward glance told him Sean was slumped forward at the waist, hands upon his knees, breathing hard.

Viggo bent in a rather obvious way over the sink. He was a mess. ‘Let him see.’ Pink-tinged semen and traces of oil coated his backside. Lines of something thicker and hotter dripped down the insides of his legs. ‘Torn and broken. Just another of his casualties.’ Sean had done his damage, damn him. Now Viggo would do his.

“Should report you, you fucker.” Even Sean raised his eyebrows at the poor choice of words. The blond slowly refastened his clothes. He wore a glazed expression, but somewhere underneath was horror at what he’d just done. He had no words yet. That was fine. Viggo had plenty. “But no. We’re too far in for another replacement. Don’t you think?” He didn’t expect an answer.

“I was thinking of cleaning up,” Viggo continued, his voice strangely even. “Maybe I’ll have you help me with something first. Normally I’d do this in my studio, but quite frankly, I don’t think I can make it up the stairs right now. You went to art school, didn’t you? I read that somewhere. So, another wanna-be artist turned actor, huh? Ain’t that the way of it?” He was starting to sound bitter and forced himself to modulate his voice tones. “Do me a favor, would you, and get my cameras? Some extra film? The tripod? They’re upstairs on the far table.”

“Are you mad?” Sean seemed to be waking up to his disturbing reality. “What for? Blackmail?”

Viggo showed him his teeth but deflected the question. “No, no. Art. What else?” Lie, lie, fucking lie. “There’ll be no faces. Usually I try for the sublime and pleasantly aesthetic, but today I think I’m craving something darker, seedier.” Sean snorted. Viggo had his own repertoire of nasty looks. He used one now. Sean stepped back, probably in spite of himself.

“Go on. Fetch!” And Viggo yipped once like a poodle. There. That should do it. Either Sean would comply or he would flee.

After he made as reasonably sure as possible without moving far that Sean had left the room, Viggo dropped the guise and slumped. He let his elbows rest on the cold metal lip of the sink. ‘This is really, really bad.’ For once he didn’t know how to handle himself. No one ever thought it would be them. He must be in shock. While footsteps upstairs crossed the ceiling/floor several times over his head, Viggo let go and heaved one sob, then another, choking in effort to do it silently. Goddammit, Sean had hurt him, literally physically fucking hurt him. Tears streaked his cheeks, catching in his beard before falling. Rage and pain came out in those salt drops, all the more-so because he couldn’t howl in anguish like he wanted to. No way was the bastard going to know.

The effort to let it out and be quiet at the same time proved too much. He started to heave, his body’s attempt to get air. His guts betrayed him, and he vomited into the sink where the bottle of oil lay on its side still leaking its contents down the drain. ‘I’m also leaking. Still.’ His left foot was ticklish with the blood that had begun to pool around it. ‘Good god, I hope it’s not serious.’ Once sure he wouldn’t throw up again, Viggo spat the sourness of his mouth into the basin.

“Hurry up, dammit,” he hollered upwards, praying his voice wouldn’t break. “Before anything dries!”

At once Sean’s heavy footfalls headed toward the stairs. Viggo turned on the tap to clean out the mess in the sink and wash his face. Nothing he could do about the red eyes, but otherwise, he would present a calm visage. Sean’s steps thudded down the stairs, then stopped before the front door. No doubt he was debating whether he should just bolt. But he didn’t. When he reentered the kitchen he surveyed the wreckage like he hadn’t seen it before that very instant. His face went pale, then red, and his hands stared to shake so hard he nearly dropped the expensive cameras and accessories.

“Set it up over there,” Viggo snapped, indicating the furthest corner near the back door. “You do know how to work one of those, don’t you?”

The other man nodded. When the better of the two cameras was bolted to the tripod, Viggo began instructing him on the shots he wanted. “…And get this right, dammit!” He envisioned a series starting with his whole body from the neck down and zooming in, a foot of depth at a time, till all that was visible was his ass and his raw and bleeding entrance. Absolutely graphic, horrid, and in a word, icky, but he had to get the man to see, somehow. He made Sean shoot it once, with him nearly upright; and once more, bent over pathetically, so his long hair hung even with his waist on that last. He had to visualize what Sean was seeing through the lens, the angle of light, the amount of background for each.

Next he had his unlikely assistant load a roll of black-and-white into the other camera for pictures of the boneyard of his kitchen. Though he didn’t want the man near him, he called him over and told him to kneel over him on the counter and shoot almost straight down over five points of the compass.

Sean, with his hard-soled shoes, ground the shards down to a powder that Viggo would never be able to skirt. The more he stepped on glass, and more-so with every click of the shutter, he was a canvas of dark rainbow-ing emotions. The whole process took nearly two hours. By the end, Sean looked like a trapped animal, which was exactly how Viggo felt. Finally he broke. “This is really some sick shit!” he ground out.

Something else had occurred to Viggo during their little exercise. “Speaking of… When’s the last time you were tested? You’d better not have given me… anything.”

Apparently this hadn’t crossed Sean’s mind. With all the blood, he too was vulnerable to such a likelihood. He considered for a minute. “I guess before Evie was born. All the prenatal stuff.”

How apt, Viggo thought. “Need I tell you to do it now?”

“So what are you saying?” A brief flash of the old nastiness.

“Not a damn thing. Don’t think I won’t be doing it, too.”

“Oh.”

“Just so it gets done.”

“Why would you even care?”

“I cared about you, Sean. Some things take a while to go away.”

There was no answer for that. Sean hung his head.

“Now would you please do me another favor and sweep a trail through this glass? I’ve got to get to the bathroom, and I can hardly walk over that. Or limp, as it were.”

That little barb was unnecessary he supposed but dammit, the fucker deserved it.

So he did. He found the broom in the little closet next to the refrigerator. In five minutes, all the broken pieces were in a pile near a length of unimportant counter. Viggo watched how Sean’s hands slipped clumsily on the handle. ‘Good. At least he’s thinking.’ As for himself, he was still too numb.

As soon as it was safe to pass, he started for the nearest bathroom, holding on to the edge of the counter with one hand. It hurt just to move. Low down inside, he ached. Pain shot down his legs once and settled into a dull throbbing. There were at least two pieces of glass stuck in his right foot. He could feel them cutting into flesh. After half a dozen steps, he had to stop. Sean just stood frozen, mute, his expressive eyes now totally void of the earlier insanity and shining with unshed tears. Viggo tried to pick his foot up and turn it under. He couldn’t. Would’ve lost his balance. He looked at his assailant in an unspoken plea.

“…Oh, for god’s sake, man! Let me… help you.”

In a second, Sean was at Viggo’s side, ducking under his left shoulder for support. There was nothing Viggo could do but allow it. Crawling was his other choice. He submitted to letting the man half-support, half-carry him into the bathroom and then into a hot shower. His nerves screamed from having to let Sean touch him. Once behind the curtain, Viggo braced his forearms against the tile wall and let the near-scalding flood flush way the detritus of the incident. At first, pink swirls curled around his feet. Soon the water ran clear but Viggo did not feel clean enough.

Slowly, he replayed everything in his head, from beginning to end. What could he have done or said differently? Maybe he could have fought harder. It had caught him so unawares. Why had he insisted on the grisly photographs? What a thing to do just after being raped. Was he crazy? And why had Sean complied? Guilt? Fear? It was disturbing to think that this man, who had been his friend since his first day here, and a casual lover, even, could do such a thing.

Viggo became aware that the same man was still in the room with him. He forced down a wave of panic. Why didn’t he leave? In fact, why was he rummaging in the medicine cabinet? In the cupboards? “What the hell are you doing?” Viggo finally asked. The water was starting to cool. He would have to get out. The slivers in his foot were going to complicate that. No use in delaying. Gathering his resolve, Viggo turned off the water. Sean’s hand appeared around the edge of the curtain, a thick dark blue towel offered.

After a minute’s hesitation, Viggo took it from him but said, “Sean… I don’t know what you’re still doing here, but I think you should leave.”

“No, I’m not. You need care.”

“Oh, and you’re going to do it, you bastard? You’ve got to be kidding. Call Orli or John or even Ian if it would make you feel better, then get the hell out.”

“Viggo,” there was a catch to Sean’s voice. “I want to, to, I don’t know… Make it up to you.”

“Blow me.”

“Uh…”

Viggo rolled his eyes. “As in, do what I’m asking and get out of my house.”

“But, your feet.” He held up a fair of tweezers. “They need to be taken care of. Those splinters will work their way in, otherwise.” He produced a tube of antibiotic cream. “This should go on all your… injuries. Bites will fester.”

“Speaking from experience?” Viggo snapped. Sean winced. He looked abashed. “’Bites will fester.’ As well they should, created by teeth which are part of the mouth, which is the filthiest part of the human body. To start with, it’s porcupine quills and cactus needles that work their way into flesh, not glass shards.” He would have gone on a lot longer, but suddenly a vaguely unhinged note appeared in his diatribe. Viggo shut off his inner and outer voices. To have something, anything, to do, he wound the towel around his waist and fussed with tucking it in just so. He didn’t want to even look at the other man. On second thought, not meeting someone’s eyes, in their culture anyway, could be construed as backing down. That was not his intent.

“Just move,” growled Viggo. He skirted Sean unsteadily; once in the hall he stumped one-sidedly toward his bedroom. He could only put weight on the outer edge of the foot with glass in it. All of his normal grace and inherent stealth were lacking. His shock was starting to wear off. The feelings flooding in were overwhelming him, as he made his way slowly. ‘So much for walking funny.’

Viggo knew his own body well enough to be certain he’d have to call in the next day. What would he say? That he’d had an accident? Some accident. Anger. Red hot. He never missed work… To be forced into lying about it yet. He could hear himself on the phone with Peter: “Oh, yeah… I fell on the broom handle…” Uh, no. As always, Viggo tried to keep his emotions clinically separated from his thinking mind, but it was not working. He was overcome with the impulse to beat Sean bloody for what he’d done. ‘Christ, Vig, sink to his level why don’t you?’ No, he wouldn’t. If that was the last thing he didn’t do, he wouldn’t do that.

Viggo made it as far as his bed. He stood there, contemplating how he was going to lower himself down onto it. Sean had followed him and hovered a few feet away. Viggo glanced at him surreptitiously while he tried leaning over the bed. This was not going to be easy. Every inch he stretched made his lower body screech in protest.

“Don’t even try to sit,” came the Englishman’s voice.

“Well, then what do you propose?” What a goddamned predicament.

“Lie right down, on your side.”

What was he supposed to do? Fall and lay where he landed? Viggo lifted one knee up on the bed, and groaned. He felt worse, not better.

“No,” Sean was rumbling from behind him. “Turn back the covers first.” He started forward.

Viggo burst out, “Back off, dammit! I mean it.”

“All right, all right… I’ll go get you some ice….” The man was not going to leave anytime soon; Viggo could see that much. He sighed in resignation.

“Fine, go get some fucking ice. What’s it for anyway? My ass?” In spite of himself, he snorted at the mental picture that came to mind, of him perching butt-naked atop a twenty pound chunk of ice.

“Uh, I guess for whatever you need it for,” Sean responded slowly. His hands restlessly folded and unfolded themselves in front of him. “Can I get you anything else? Have you a heating pad? Do you want some water? Tea? Do you need a smoke? God, I need a smoke…” He kept jabbering away till Viggo’s ears rang. When he finally shut up, Viggo said. “Ice. Smokes. And alcohol. The stronger the better. Anything else is up to you.”

While Sean was busy with his errand, Viggo shifted around gingerly under the comforter. No position was anything resembling comfortable. At last he stuffed a king-sized pillow between his knees and rolled onto his side. If he didn’t move much, it would do.

The bottle of Jack preceded Sean through the door. He held it awkwardly in front of him by the neck. A pair of shot glasses and a few of Viggo’s hand-rolled cigarettes in a clear glass ashtray were balanced in his other hand. Under his arm was tucked an ice pack wrapped in a towel.

“A peace offering of sorts, eh, mate?”

Viggo just looked at him and grimaced as he struggled back up onto his elbow. Sean set the things he was carrying on the bedside table and pulled up a straight-backed chair that normally resided next to Viggo’s closet.

“May I?” he asked, indicting the seat with a wave of his hand.

Viciousness gripped Viggo. He let it out in his voice. “I think the time for asking permission has come and gone, don’t you? By all means, if it’ll make you feel better about yourself, sit.”

“Viggo, I—“

“Never mind. Whatever. Just shut up. You may need to talk about it, and so may I, but not to each other.”

Without a word Sean sat down on the chair. Methodically he uncapped the bottle and poured them each a shot. He set the bottle back down. Picked up his little clear glass of dark amber liquid. Handed the other across to Viggo, who accepted it with a nod that was so force-of-habit he couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t wait; he bolted it. A fiery path burned itself down his trachea. It distracted him momentarily from his other pains, and from the presence not three feet from him. He grabbed the bottle off the table and poured another. Now two down the hatch. Three. He grimaced. It burned, but the alcohol was starting to anesthetize him. He reached for the bottle again and swayed, dangerously close to the edge of the bed. Sean’s hands landed on his bare shoulders and Viggo flinched violently, then again as the sudden movement jarred his injuries. Sean held on and eased him back onto the pillow. Wordlessly, he handed over the ice pack and turned away.

“How ‘bout I pick that glass out of your foot now?” he asked anxiously. Viggo had closed his eyes at the close contact. He opened one, suddenly struck at his own vulnerability: hurt, naked, and half drunk. But it needed to come out. He nodded and re-shut his eye. In the dark behind his eyelids, he didn’t have to think about where the cold pack was going. He was not too proud to be thankful for its soothing effects.

Sean walked away from the bed, retrieved his supplies, and circled around to the foot. For a moment he seemed to contemplate how to get at Viggo’s buried limbs. Carrying the straight-backed chair around, he plunked down and pulled the sheet and blankets loose. Viggo knew it was coming but jumped when the bedding was flipped back. Four warm fingers and opposable thumb closed around his injured limb.

“Take it easy,” the other man said in a nervous but somehow calming voice. “Hold still. I won’t hurt you.”

Viggo wanted to give the loudest, most elaborate snort of his life. This must be what they meant about if the reality doesn’t kill you then the irony will.

Sean picked up the silver tweezers and probed delicately into one of the cuts. Damn, that stung. The first shard was found quickly and plucked out. Setting it carefully on the bedspread, Sean turned back to Viggo’s foot.

That first piece had been the larger, and in his heel. The second sliver was buried deep in the meat of his foot, halfway between middle toe and arch. Viggo gritted his teeth and tried not to move. Open wounds gave him no qualms; he just didn’t like this hard, metallic, probably unsanitized instrument digging into him. ‘Hard, metallic, probably unsanitized…’ Where the hell did that come from? After three futile attempts by Sean to snag the elusive piece of glass, Viggo had to hiss, “Stop! Give me a minute!” They were both sweating.

Sean didn’t move except to pull the instrument from his flesh. ‘…Pull the instrument from his flesh,’ Viggo looped his mental commentary. Jesus H., his mind was having sick turns.

“Go for it,” he growled a minute later, just to think about something else. He found he couldn’t. Maybe to distract himself from the minor surgery on his sole, maybe because it was just unavoidable, Viggo’s every axon turned to various sexual concepts. The view didn’t help. There was Sean, sitting between his legs of the foot of his bed, his little pink tongue licking his pink lips in utter concentration, the very picture of domestic servitude. This was hopelessly at odds with what had occurred earlier. Totally disconcerting flashbacks filtered in that featured Sean at the peak of his passion, moaning like some wounded animal while Viggo himself made him cum. The first time they’d been together, they’d been so needy they hadn’t even made it as far as fucking. With green eyes locked on blue, they’d manfully jerked each other off in the back of Sean’s rental car after some Moria scene or other. Not two minutes after it began, they’d cum almost simultaneously, fighting a losing battle not to succumb too soon, and collapsed sticky-slippery in their mutual essences… Viggo didn’t want to imagine Sean like that right now. He tried to force his malfunctioning brain back around to events earlier tonight. It was futile. The ghosts were rattling their chains.

Unwelcome, older memories pushed in. Nearly twenty years ago now, Viggo’s first full-fledged experiences with a man had not been all so different. Except that he had fought more. And bled less. That was how they’d both wanted it. From even farther back, he remembered the first time he had broken a girl’s virginity, how they had both been so scared when she cried in pain. Still, he had cum anyway minutes later, unable to stop himself from giving in to the fear rush. He’d never been able to totally let go of either experience, or the way each made him feel. Didn’t matter if he was the dealer of the receiver. Yes, he knew it was weird, if not downright sick. None-the-less, after, he’d had to go get his fix every once in a while. Things changed, though. As he got older, the girls looked younger and younger, and truth be told you couldn’t find a virgin anymore who wasn’t illegal. The more he threw himself into method acting, the more difficult it became for anyone to crack him, to subdue him. Then he was involved, married, divorced, and lost his taste for a long time. Celibacy had it perks, despite its one obvious pitfall… no diseases, no unwanted pregnancies, no souring relationships, no torn rectums… ‘Fucking hell, Viggo’… He’d had a couple of nice girlfriends and boyfriends to break it up, yada yada, blah blah, bah humbug. Then out of nowhere, he was here, thrust into the middle of this happy, jolly, lunatic asylum of an alternate universe. Everyone was so goddamn beautiful. Viggo could have had his pick. Hell, they all could have their pick. He ought to be having a fuckfest to make a few of his past characters proud. But no. He didn’t. Not until… He’d sensed that little edge in Sean. It had just gone so totally psycho. Too far. Something like this hardly qualified…. Yes, he should have… ‘No, stop that Viggo, before you should yourself to death.’

The tiny sliver of glass escaped no longer. Sean held up the bloody tweezers almost proudly. Viggo swore. Despite the mental backtalk he’d felt every minute shifting of them. Surely Sean had had to go deep enough to hit some nerves. In his foot. Nerves in his foot. The rest Viggo had dredged up on his own. He realized how buried they’d been, for a very long time. These were some nerves he’d not wanted touched at all. Damn bloody complicated Brit. He went around doing unthinking things Viggo had danced around and hidden most of his adult life. Disguised as art. Scrawled onto paper. He couldn’t hate his fellow actor. How can one hate one’s inward self being worn by another on the outside, even if for a few minutes of abhorrent behavior? Even though he was still pissed as hell, he felt… clarified.

And tired as all hell. He realized Sean had left the room ten minutes ago and he’d been lying there, zoning out. It had gone full dark, so it had to be at least 10:00. He just needed some sleep. Lots of it. At least 24 hrs. There was no denying his body wasn’t going to heal as fast as he’d like it to, and the extremes of his emotions had exhausted him.

Shortly thereafter, Viggo heard footsteps, soft this time, on stocking feet, in the hallway. This was a departure; Sean rarely took his shoes off. Though he still couldn’t quite look at the other man, he had dropped the wariness and disgust. His hair picking up faint starlight from outside, the blond man padded back into Viggo’s bedroom, and over to his nearly sleeping form. He paused, and around walked to the opposite side of the bed.

“May I?” The meaning was clear.

“Are you kidding?” Viggo mumbled from near-unconsciousness.

“No.”

Viggo took so long to answer, he wasn’t sure that he was going to. But he did.

“Go ahead.” A warm, solid body slid in beside him. The last thing he remembered was ointment being dabbed on his back. That, and what felt suspiciously like kisses. Then he was out like light.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Viggo was awakened by irregular, unfamiliar vibrations. It took him a minute to make sense of it. Sean was sobbing, but just as he himself had earlier, forcibly stifling the noise. After listening for several minutes, he hesitantly reached over. Sheer habit again. The man jerked away like he’d been burned. He tried to say something, but was too far gone to be coherent.

With a sigh that felt like surrender, Viggo inched over and laid his arm over Sean’s torso, pulling him back till they were flush, or almost. Sean was sleeping in his clothes. There was no way he could press the issue much, but with several unsubtle tugs to his shirt, wordlessly he convinced the blond to face him. Sean fell against his chest, the shaking intensifying. Viggo held him for a long time, till his whole front was wet from tears and god knew what else. Toward the end, Sean whispered, “I’m sorry,” and once started he couldn’t stop repeating it. Viggo drifted off again saying, ‘Shh, ssh,” softly.

At dawn, Viggo arose very carefully and took his morning piss. When he returned, he found Sean was curled up in the middle of bed. Apparently Viggo had been curled around him. He was not moving any faster than the night before; it took some time for him to get back in the bed. His shifting woke up his unlikely bedmate.

“Viggo, I’m…” he started before he could even get his eyes open.

“Never mind. I know. Just get some help.” What a thing to be saying at 6:00 in the morning.

A long, wide yawn. It gave Viggo time to get settled in again.

“It’s not the first time that’s happened,” Sean told him quietly after a moment. His accent was thick with sleep; Viggo had to strain to catch everything.

“I’m reasonably sure all three, well, four, of my kids were conceived in such a fashion,” he admitted.

Reasonably sure. “Do you have blackouts? That’s medical… you should be seen…”

“No,” Sean cut him off. “I always remember everything… after. So I must be in there somewhere while I’m doing it.”

Viggo found it encouraging that he at least took responsibility for his actions. He resorted to lame humor, the only thing he could drum up on such an early morning. “Well, at least I can’t get pregnant.”

Sean actually laughed a little. “With my track record anything’s possible.” His smile faded. “Ah, well. I’ve got that to deal with too, eh?”

“Or not. Let it go, Sean. There’s nothing you can do.” Sean’s eyebrows knit. “She’s gonna do what she’s gonna do. I said ‘get help’ a while ago. They have anger management; they have grief counseling; they have any manner of analysis. If you need drugs, they have drugs. I’m sorry, I know that sounds trite. We can’t always do it all on our own. Just check into it, ok? You already have kids to think about; you don’t want to do something stupid around them, do you?” Sean slowly shook his head.

“What about you?” There was real concern in his eyes. It was too bad, Viggo thought, that it wasn’t as easy to fix a human as it was a broken plate.

“What about me? Nothing. I can use this. Gotta be angsty and brooding and all that. Nice fodder. When I get back to the States, I’ll find some obscure, anonymous hideout and then… I’ll go from there. I happen to have a really good shrink in L.A. who’ll do talk therapy over the phone. Been doing that for years.”

“You?!”

Viggo nodded, even though Sean couldn’t see him do it. “Yeah, me. We strong silent types have to have it out, too. Or we’d be the strong, psychotic types.”

Sean flipped over so he was facing the darker man. “Was that directed at me?”

Confused, Viggo analyzed what had just come out of his mouth. “Oh. Bad phrasing, I guess. But truly, that probably goes for both of us. Admit it. You weren’t yourself.”

Sean looked pissed off. His nostrils flared. Obviously, he wasn’t used to being called on his behavior. “I said I was sorry…” he began, sulkily.

“Look, do I have to spell it out for you?” Viggo raised his voice for the first time. Maybe he was crazy, or stupid, because he was still in no condition to defend himself should it be become necessary. “R-A-P-E. That’s what you did. Face it. Sorry doesn’t cut it. I will take care of myself, in whatever way I deem necessary. Got it? As your friend, or whatever, I’m telling you to find a programme or a therapist and do the same. Do it, Sean. Or I develop the film. And not because I want to.”

“But…you said it wasn’t blackmail.”

“That is totally and completely up to you.”

After a moment, with a startled look, Sean slid back from Viggo and stood. His clothes were all rumpled and twisted around.

“Well, now I know why you’re such a know-it-all, anyway.” He turned and strode stiffly down the hall. Viggo heard the splatter of more morning piss hit the bowl. Then a flush and more footsteps, quietly heading away. The man on the bed closed his eyes and slept for another six hours.

When he awoke again, it was with a jump. Oh, shit! What time was it? Nearly noon, by the sun. He hadn’t gone to work. He hadn’t called Peter. The amazing thing was that his phones weren’t ringing off the hook and there were no cops in his driveway. The next thing he noticed was now sore he was, and that he wasn’t alone. It all flooded back in.

“When did you come back? I though you’d gone. What are you still doing here?” Viggo asked sharply. Last night was all hurt and comfort, he reasoned, wondering where he’d picked up that terminology. This was getting ridiculous. “Don’t you proper English folk have some sense of when to leave?” He’d been sure any mention of seeing a shrink would be enough to make Sean run for it.

Apparently not. Though the other man didn’t move and wouldn’t look him in the eye now, in the light of day, he did make himself heard. “I was wandering off down the road, and I got to thinking about what you’d said. I’ve been told such before. I think I might’ve put my fist through a wall that time. The way you said it made sense, for the first time ever. I don’t want to be this way…” He took a deep breath like he was going to say more, but let it out slowly. After a minute: “I just wanted to tell you.”

“You told me. Good, fine, congratulations. I’ll be more impressed if you put your money where your mouth is. And not just once or twice either. That’s the hard part: sticking to it.”

“Viggo, can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“Can I suck you off?”

After a moment of stunned disbelief, the American burst out in hysterical laughter. “You… dumb ass…” he wheezed out between yelps. “What… will that prove?” Just when he thought he’d calmed down, he started up again. “Goddamnit… hurts to laugh… you fucker…” With that he flopped down on his back so his ribs wouldn’t ache so badly.

A warm, calloused hand lit on his bare stomach. Viggo tensed. Shit. He was serious. “Do you think that will make it even now, or something?”

“No… but I said I wanted to make it up to you, and I do.” The hand began to move slowly in small circles.

“Stop!” Viggo caught his wrist, but even then the fingers continued their pattern. Sean wiggled down the bed about two feet. It took no leap of the imagination to see where he was headed. Hot breath cascaded down over his side, followed by a wet pointed tongue. Dammit. This is not supposed to happen. Viggo moaned inwardly as he felt his disobedient cock fill and swell. By the time Sean licked him there, his grip had slackened and the now free hand very gently cupped and squeezed his balls. It had been several days now since Viggo had even jerked off; they felt full and tender. First the came licking, which he didn’t dare even watch. Sean’s tongue was a lethal weapon. Then the sucking. There was no way to resist it. Suction and friction, just the right amount of teeth and tongue, became the center of his universe. Hard hands held his hips down while Viggo rose to a height he just couldn’t quite reach the summit of. It went on forever, it seemed, darkness reclined while the golden evil one plied his trade like a professional….it was good, so good, the tongue flicking over and over, just so, against the little frenulum underneath the head. He knew he was moaning and couldn’t silence himself. ‘Oh, shut up and get if over with…’ and he did, releasing so hard he thought he’d turn inside out. Jet after jet of cream filled Sean’s mouth; Viggo hoped he choked on it, but of course he wouldn’t because he was too damn good at this.

When it was over, it was over fast, almost like he hadn’t just cum. He pushed Sean away as much as he could and slid back. The other man looked at him with his green eyes gleaming but Viggo reached a shaky hand out for a cigarette, abandoned last night on the bedside table.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said. “Whatever you’ve got going on, you’re going to take care of it yourself.” He’d been pushed one too many times. There. Finally, he left no room for arguments.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll… just take a shower, right?”

“Better make it cold.”

“No, hot, and get rid of this…” What he was referring to was pretty obvious at the moment. Viggo just grunted non-committally as he lit up his smoke and took a deep, much-needed drag. After a minute, Sean left the room again. This time, Viggo walked to the door, closed it quietly, and locked it. There was only so much he could take, and he’d reached his limit. The whole scene last night, the glass, the crying fit during the night, the ‘therapy’ discussion, parts one and two, and now… whatever the fuck that was…

‘Well, Viggo, you did it again. Really landed a live one, didn’t you?’ Yes, and one he was going to stay away from, from now on. People would wonder why, since they’d been such good mates before. He wasn’t going to answer to that, not a word, not till he could understand what can of worms he’d opened up again after so many years. It was going to have to be sorted, aired, and relocked, just like Pandora’s box. He’d call his shrink tomorrow.

Fin.


End file.
